


chasing waterfalls

by zaeedmassanis (theworldabouttodawn)



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: 5+1 Things, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Gen, Platonic Female/Male Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-27
Updated: 2019-09-27
Packaged: 2020-10-29 12:43:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20796824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theworldabouttodawn/pseuds/zaeedmassanis
Summary: all his life, everess was the one who followedthemaround. so why did nathaniel keep finding himself running after her? five times nathaniel howe ran after everess cousland, and one time he didn’t.





	chasing waterfalls

**Author's Note:**

> this is a Very Loose 5+1 and also idk if it's super coherent anyways but !! i have a LOT of feelings about these folks

_(one: dive | 9:14 dragon, 5 solace)_

The Couslands are fine, Nate supposes, but they’re a lot better in Highever. Here at the Vigil, Teyrn Bryce and Teyrna Eleanor seem to be barely putting up with Nate’s own parents. He can’t really blame them, of course – but at least he’s allowed to get himself lost in the twisting basement tunnels or the dense forest whenever he wants to run away. The Couslands are forever stuck at the high table alongside his parents’ bickering, and despite their best attempts, Nate can _tell_ when they’re annoyed.

One of the upsides of the visitors, however, is that Fergus is just as willing to set off on any expeditions as Nate himself is, be it deep underground or into the words. Nate’s waiting at their usual meeting place by a not-much-used gate to go fishing while the weather is still nice when Fergus runs up, out of breath and certainly not ready to set out.

“Have you seen Eve?” he asks frantically. “The governess says she ran off and they can’t find her.”

Nate sighs. “Really would have thought she’d stop running off by now,” he says.

“She’s _five_,” Fergus says flatly. “She isn’t old enough to grow out of _anything._”

“Have you asked Delilah or Tommy, then?” Nate asks.

“They were the first people I asked,” Fergus says. “Couldn’t get a straight answer out of them. Andraste’s _ass_, if Mother finds out I’ve lost her–”

Nate understands. The teyrna is _terrifying_, and he’ll admit that freely. With a sigh, he drops his rod and basket of bait. “All right, let’s go. Has _anyone_ seen her after she ran off?”

“A few of the servants mentioned seeing her – or a small redhead, at any rate – marching through a gate. Said she looked so self-assured that she must have known where she was going. Which, _Maker_, she probably does, but that’s no excuse–” Fergus is pacing now, speaking faster and faster until Nate has to cut in to stem his friend’s rising panic.

“Okay, well – which gate? What could she be interested in outside?” he asks, trying to keep his voice as even as possible.

Fergus sighs in frustration. “She – she likes trees,” he starts. “Yeah, yeah, I know that’s not much to go on–”

“Are you _sure_ you can’t think of anything else?” Nate remarks, unable to stop himself despite the gravity of the situation.

“She – waterfalls, that’s it – she likes waterfalls!” Fergus exclaims after a few moments of hemming and hawing. “Do you know any waterfalls around here? Anything Delilah or Thomas or the governess could have told Eve about?”

And Nate knows just the place. He took the kids out there just two weeks prior, a tall, thin waterfall that dropped into a pool so close you could see the bottom even though he himself still hasn’t managed to swim all the way down. And – “Oh, _shit_, Fergus, can she swim?”

“Not – not really, not yet, sometimes she tries to in the mill pond but – oh _no_–” and he comes to the same realization Nate did.

Nate takes off running, trusting Fergus to follow him. He knows the way – he’s been going there for a few months now, whenever he needed a break – so he crashes through the words thoughtlessly (none of the silence he usually tries so carefully to preserve) while his heart is threatening to beat out of his throat. If she fell in – if she _jumped_ in–

He doesn’t see anything at first when he bursts into the glade. For a split second, he wonders if he was wrong, that Fergus’ sister is somewhere else entirely – but then he sees a flash of red in the clear blue and green of the pool.

There’s no questioning, no moment of deliberation. He doesn’t even stop to consider his clothes before he dives in, striking out with quick, sure strokes to reach the little girl. She’s quiet in her distress, the whites in her eyes all he can see of her fear, and she barely reacts when he shouts her name and reaches out to her.

But she clings to him like a limpet the moment he touches her. “Hey, hey, I’ve got you,” Nate soothes as best as he can, slinging her over his shoulder and (gently) pounding her back to try to clear out any water before he heads back to shore.

“Eve!” he hears and turns to see Fergus on the bank. “Nate–”

“I’ve got her!” Nate shouts, shifting the girl so he can swim back to shore. She’s so small, feels so fragile, and he prays with every fiber of his being that she’ll be okay.

Fergus takes her the moment he can, leaving Nate to haul himself out of the pond. “Don’t you _ever_ run off like that again,” he admonishes as he checks her over.

She hacks, coughs, and finally takes a deep breath, seemingly none the worse for wear. “The waterfall was pretty,” she pouts. “I wanted closer.”

“Well, you can’t get closer,” Fergus says. “Not until you’re older, at least.”

“Older like Nate?” Looking up from his sodden clothes at the mention of his name, he realizes with a start that she’s looking right at him, smiling shyly. “He can find waterfalls.”

Neither of his siblings have ever looked at him like that before, like they’ve suddenly found themselves a hero. Nate raises a hand slowly in befuddled response as Fergus says, “Older like Nate and me, yes. But you have to stay with Delilah and Thomas now, okay?”

“Okay, when I’m older, I’ll go find waterfalls with Nate, and you can stay and _be boring_,” she says, and Nate marvels at her resilience.

He decides right then and there that he’ll do anything he can to keep her safe. Fergus will leave for the army soon, and Everess Cousland is going to need a big brother.

* * *

_(two: gift | 9:22 dragon, 21 bloomingtide)_

After the near-drowning incident, Eve won’t leave Nate alone. Too often this means she tags along with Fergus and him, which is _annoying_ (to say the least.) But the first time the Howes visit Highever after Fergus’ departure, Nate suddenly finds he doesn’t mind nearly as much. He’d rather keep Eve from falling out of trees than babysit his own siblings in the solar, anyways.

When Teyrna Eleanor decides that Everess should start learning to defend herself, Nate gets a letter. It’s short, the penmanship still clumsy, but the intent is earnest. “Mother wants me to learn to fight,” Eve writes, “but I don’t want a _shield_. They’re heavy. What do you do? Can you teach me?”

And no, Nate is at the Vigil and cannot teach her – not that he thinks archery is what the teyrna had in mind, anyways – but he mentions that he sometimes practices with long knives. Soon enough, the Couslands are back in Amaranthine and Everess is running to show Nate what she’s been learning.

Every time he sees her, she’s so much bigger, but he still has a moment of panic at this _ten year old_ wielding _knives_. Nevertheless, he agrees to spar with her – better him than anyone else, he supposes.

She’s a quick study, already adept at making the most of her agile and manoeuvrable small size. Nate knows that she’ll _hate _him if he lets her win on purpose, but – he can’t say the urge isn’t there.

After half an hour or so, he feels eyes watching him and looks across the practice field to lock eyes with Teyrna Eleanor. Immediately, he drops his wooden weapons, gulping as he starts towards them (even as Eve keeps gently poking his hand with the tips of her own practice knives.)

But the teyrna is _smiling._ “I didn’t want you to stop on my account,” she says, handing his blades back to him. “You’ve got some pretty good form. But she’ll have you to rights in a few more hours, just you wait.”

Nate scoffs at the idea – Eve is half his age and size, there’s _no way_ she can beat him.

And she doesn’t, but she does manage to land a few blows that he knows will definitely leave marks for a few days.

The teyrna approaches him again after dinner. “Nate – I just wanted to tell you how much I appreciate you taking our Eve under your wing. She misses her brother and he’s not much of a writer, so it’s good that she has you. Really, it is.”

There’s a gleam in her eye that Nate doesn’t quite like, something that reminds him of his parents talking furiously behind closed doors and the not-so-subtle hints his father throws him whenever someone mentions a daughter of a Bann Something-or-other, but he doesn’t want to upset the teyrna. So he just nods and says, “Can’t let her grow up without a big brother,” and hopes that’s enough.

And it is for a few years, until he backtalks his father once too many when he himself is deeper in his bottle than he has a right to be. There’s something in the otherwise-familiar thunder of his father’s face that frightens him, although he tries not to show it when he leaves the high table.

“Of _course_ you’d make a scene in front of our guests,” Delilah scolds when she lets herself into his room an hour later.

“They’re just the Couslands,” he says sullenly, perched on the windowsill. “It’s not like they don’t know.”

“You embarrassed him in front of them,” she points out, sitting on his bed. “He’s not going to take this lightly.”

Nathaniel sneers. “What’s the worst he can do?”

Delilah sighs. “I just think you may have crossed a line is all, and he won’t let it rest. Don’t say you weren’t warned.”

He was just going to brush it off as Delilah being paranoid until his father stands up at the high table at breakfast the next morning. “I would like to make an announcement,” he says, and his voice is hard. “My eldest son, Nathaniel, has just been blessed with the opportunity to squire in the Free Marches with his uncle, Ser Rodolphe Varley. He will leave two days hence.”

Everyone stares at Nathaniel, waiting for some kind of response, but he’s frozen in his seat. His father’s glare shoots daggers through his flesh, unchecked by his (predictably absent) mother, so all he does is nod stiffly before excusing himself from the hall. He needs some air, the walls feel like they’re pressing in on him, Father can’t _send him away–_

His pacing leads him all the way up to the battlements, where he finds – to his surprise – Eve Cousland, motionless on the highest tower, staring at the rolling forests below. She startles when he clears his throat, but as soon as she recognises him, she flings herself at him. “You can’t leave!” she cries. “The _Marches_–”

Something in him wants to be strong, to act like it matters not (even though the last thing he wants is to leave Ferelden.) “It’s not the end of the world,” he says. “Just across the Waking Sea.”

And Eve has _been_ far away from Highever, has been to Redcliffe and Gwaren which are both probably further than – wherever he’s going, but that doesn’t seem to comfort her. “That’s so _far away_,” she groans. “Will you ever come back?”

“I’ll write,” he says, because that’s all he can promise. “I’ll always write.”

Then he’s struck by an idea. Gingerly disentangling himself from Eve’s embrace, he says, “Meet me in the training yard tomorrow morning, okay? I’ve got something for you.”

Eve nods, drying her tears, and then suddenly looks angry with herself at letting herself cry, in front of Nate, no less. Nate can’t stop to comfort her, though – he’s on a quest to find something he hasn’t thought about in _years_.

He looks in his own room first, digging through piles of old armour and equipment before deciding that someone must have put it away when he grew out of it. Maybe it’s with the quartermaster?

So he goes and asks the quartermaster, an old man with a twinkle in his eye who’s been around for as long as Nate can remember. “I’ve got it somewhere around here, Natey-boy–” and Nate tries not to roll his eyes at the nickname. “Put it away for you safe and sound. It was well made, so I thought you might be wanting it again, although I must say I didn’t expect it so soon.”

“If you have time to find it right now, I can wait,” Nate says, settling against one wall.

“Right, right, you leave in a few days,” the quartermaster mutters, as if he’s forgotten. Maybe he has. “Wait here, then, I’ll be right back.” He disappears into the warren of basement storerooms through the back door.

It doesn’t take long – he knows his work, for which Nate is immeasurably grateful. “You might have to restring it,” he says apologetically as he hands it over.

Nate accepts the small recurve bow with both hands, feeling the once familiar wood gently. “I can do that tonight,” he says when the string disintegrates under his touch. “Thank you.”

The quartermaster waves him off. “It’s my job,” he says, turning away – although not before Nate catches the glittering in his eyes.

Nate spends the rest of the day out by the waterfall. He oknwos that he’s not really _hidden_ by any stretch of the imagination, but it’s worth pretending. He doesn’t know how much green he’ll get to see in the north, what with all their cities, and certainly nothing like the wild beauty of Ferelden. He’d like to savour it for as long as possible.

The quiet is soothing, the soft sounds of the forest around him the only thing he hears. He tries not to think about how he may never come here again as he carefully waxes a bowstring, trimming it down to size so that it fits the child’s bow.

Considering all the time he’s caught himself staring into the clear pool in deep contemplation, blind to all around him and to the work in his hands, he considers it an accomplishment that he’s not only remembered to eat the meagre lunch he brought with him but also brought the bow back up to the standard he remembers.

He didn’t think he’d make it this long without someone checking on him, but – maybe they’re already trying to get used to him being gone. It’s not like he can blame them, anyways. He had suspected something like this would happen – he just didn’t expect it to be the _Marches_. Denerim, maybe, or Gwaren (or Highever) or somewhere in the Bannorn, but – Eve was right. The Free Marches just feel so much further away.

In the morning, he heads to the training yards before even stopping to grab a bite from the kitchen. If Eve had shown up that early (which he wouldn’t put past her at all), he wouldn’t want to keep her waiting.

And she’s there, all right, dressed in the smallest set of leathers he’s ever seen. “So, are we going to fight?” she asks.

“Not quite,” he says, and unslings the bow from his back. “This, - this is for you,” he says.

It’s the perfect size. She accepts it with wide eyes before glancing up at him and quipping, “I like daggers better, but I suppose I can learn.”

“It was my first bow,” he tells her. “better to learn it and not need it than need it and not know how.”

“Then I’ll give it a shot,” she says, grinning at her own wit. “Since you said so.”

* * *

_(three: change | 9:30 dragon, 19 justinian)_

He did promise to write, and really, he tries, but then the Grand Tourney happens and Ser Rodolphe gives him so much more to do and he’s _really_ trying to get good at archery and Eve’s letters grow terser and terser until one day he realises he hasn’t heard from her in a year.

It’s all for the better, he supposes. What was he _doing_, anyways, keeping up a correspondence with his childhood best friend’s younger sister, a girl ten years younger than him? Best to leave it in the past. No use dwelling on it.

So when he receives news of his father’s slaying at the hands of a Grey Warden in the midst of a Blight, he doesn’t think to ask about their identity. It doesn’t matter. But before he can set out for home to avenge his father and retake his ancestral seat, he reads about Ferelden’s new monarchs, King Alistair Theirin and Queen Everess Cousland, Commander of the Grey.

Well.

He won’t let this complicate things. He _shouldn’t_ let this complicate things. One of Everess’ wardens killed his father, and even if he himself didn’t harbour that much _affection_ for the man, Rendon Howe didn’t deserve to die. Not in the way he was murdered. And the Wardens certainly don’t deserve Vigil’s Keep and the entire arling of Amaranthine for their crimes.

Luckily, the eight years he’s been away are more than enough to keep him below notice when he makes in Denerim. He keeps an ear close to the ground for rumours but doesn’t find much of use. All he’s hearing about is that the Warden-Commander – Everess – had died killing the Archdemon and was resurrected through some blood magic ritual, that she and all her followers can turn into werewolves, and that Fergus Cousland had escaped the massacre of his family, unbeknownst to his sister, and was rescued by a dragon–

Wait.

He listens more. Highever had indeed been ransacked in the middle of the night, he learns, but no one can agree on who did it. Some say it was the traitor Loghain mac Tir looking to eliminate a potential rival, only he couldn’t have reached Ostagar so quickly with all his men afterward. Others say it was the work of demons, but everyone thinks everything is either demons or blood magic, so Nathaniel takes that with an entire sack of salt.

Still others say it was Rendon Howe, that he had taken advantage of the Couslands’ friendship and hospitality as well as the rumours of Blight in a bid for power, and that it had _succeeded_.

_Father couldn’t have done this_, Nate thinks as he travels, head down and hood up, ears always open. _He would never – Bryce Cousland saved his life – he must have been granted the teyrnir for finding the ones who _did_ do it, or else Cousland himself was the traitor–_

The one thing the rumours always agree on, though? There were only two Wardens in Ferelden during the Blight, and Everess Cousland personally killed Rendon Howe.

Nathaniel hasn’t heard from her in five years. There’s no telling what kind of woman she’s become.

But he thinks enough on Everess and the girl she used to be that, by the time he finally reaches the Vigil, he doesn’t think he could still bring himself to kill her. All he wants now is his grandfather’s bow, and maybe the seal he had seen his father use, and some portraits of his mother, and various war trophies the Howes had accumulated over the years. Just – something to remember them by, is all. To remember who _he _is.

The Wardens’ security is laughable, literally. They clearly haven’t mapped out the entire keep yet and are _severely _understaffed, and Nathaniel almost can’t help but laugh at them as he finds his way to the trophy room without any mishaps whatsoever. He remembers seeing the bow there last, as well as his father’s swords – maybe he can try to put together what happened.

Miraculously, the room is largely untouched, most everything in its place. Of course, neither the bow nor the swords are missing – just his luck, but there are a few other artefacts and family heirlooms that he had been thinking of. And maybe the swords are just missing because there was a Blight on and his father felt safer when armed.

For all the good that did him.

Nathaniel doesn’t have time to ponder this, however. He’s busy packing his bag with everything he wants to take when the door slams open and two wardens burst in, swords at the ready.

No matter. His own knives are out in a flash – he didn’t square in Ansburg for nothing – and it’s been so long since he was in a _proper fight _(tavern brawls notwithstanding) that he could almost laugh with the sheer joy of it.

But he’s just one man. One dislocated shoulder, two bleeding cuts on his thigh, and some reinforcements later, he’s roughly manhandled into one of the cells in the dungeon. “Commander’ll be to see you when she’s back,” one of his captors drawls as he looks the cell door. “You just sit tight until then, yeah?”

His nonchalance is _infuriating_. “This keep should be _mine!_” Nathaniel can’t help but snarl, shaking the bars, but the blasted warden just laughs and turns away.

It’s not like they _mistreat _him, exactly. Twice a day, someone brings him bread and stew, probably from the same pot they themselves eat from. But other than that, he sees no one for three days, and by the fourth morning he can already feel himself vibrating out of his own skin.

Judging by the position of the sun through the one high, slitted window, it hasn’t been two hours since they brought him breakfast, yet he can hear the clanking of armour on the stairs – someone, maybe two people, coming down to see him. He makes no move to stand up as they come into view – it won’t make a difference to his fate, and he’d rather not show any deference to his captors if it’s all the same to him.

She wears her hair shorter than it used to be, neatly brushed and pulled back from her face. That’s the first thing he notices, before the scars, before the armour of dragonhide, before the steely glint of her green eyes, and he mentally kicks himself for it. _She’s not the girl you knew, Nathaniel._

Her eyes widen in surprise when she recognises him. “Nathaniel Howe. What, pray tell, are you doing in my keep?”

“Seems like you’ve forgotten it was _mine_ first,” he retorts without thinking. It feels too much like banter, like it doesn’t matter, when it does _so much_.

And she recognises that. “Your father gave up any claim to Amaranthine and the Vigil when he allied with Loghain and _murdered my parents_,” she snaps, expression hardening.

“Whatever he did, he must have done it with reason,” Nathaniel argues, standing up. “My father was never an impulsive man. There must have been something – some reason he or Loghain couldn’t trust Bryce Cousland. Maybe Loghain talked him into it.”

She sighs. “Howe men killed my lover in front of my eyes. A Howe – _your father, _no less – made my mother lick his boots before he killed my father. Even if it was Loghain’s idea, it was your father’s orders and your father’s sword.”

“Then he must have had a reason,” Nathaniel responds. “As I said. Some reason he couldn’t trust the teyrn.”

“Yes, and the reason was power. He wanted power, and he got the teyrnir of Highever and the arling of Denerim. He had what he wanted, and everyone suffered for it,” Everess says firmly. “But why did _you_ come? Last I heard, you were perfectly happy in Ansburg, and it’s not as if you particularly _liked_ your father.”

He takes a deep breath. “The moment of truth, then. “I heard the Wardens killed my father and took our holdings, and I wanted them back. I wanted to kill whoever struck the blow – I wanted to kill _you_. But by the time I got here – I realised that all I wanted was some heirlooms. Trinkets, really. Nothing you were supposed to miss.”

Closing her eyes briefly, she sighs. Nathaniel is suddenly struck by how _young_ she still is, younger than he was when he last saw her, and – the Blight can’t have been easy on her, and now she’s Warden-Commander of Ferelden and–

He shakes himself. He can’t feel sorry for her. They’re nowhere near the people they used to be, and he has to remember what she’s done.

She turns to the seneschal. “I’m invoking the Right of Conscription,” she says, voice clear and bright, and blood roars in Nathaniel’s ears. “The Howes are persona non grata in Ferelden right now, Nathaniel. I’d wager that you’d have a hard time of it should you set out on your own. But – maybe you can regain some of your family’s honour through service.”

“I–” Part of him wants to rage, to slam against the bars and yell that _she has no right_, but she, quite literally, does. He bows his head. “Very well.” 

* * *

_(four: reciprocate | 9:30 dragon, 23 justinian)_

There’s a knock on his door late one evening, a few days after his Joining. “Who is it?” he calls from his perch on the windowsill. The Commander gave him his old room back – said that her personal strike team deserved their own quarters anyways, but Nathaniel suspects she may be trying to apologise for something, or butter him up, or – shit, he doesn’t know.

“Just me.” Think of a demon, it’s her. “Can I come in?”

He sighs. “Go ahead,” he says after a moment of contemplation. So much for his peace and quiet.

At least she has the good grace to look apologetic. “Think we’ll stick around for a few days to keep an eye on the repair work. Sergeant Maverlies was telling me that they’ve seen a few darkspawn down in the storerooms. Nothing extremely dangerous, but I was just wondering if you were interested in coming.”

He thinks about all the things that have been haphazardly shoved in the basement, all the books and paintings and furniture and–

They cleared out his father’s study. Maybe its contents are down there. Maybe he can find something to – to clear his father’s name so they can drop this façade, so he can get answers once and for all. “Sure,” he shrugs. “I’ll go.”

She nods, pleased. “Great! It’s getting pretty late, so we’ll meet after early breakfast in the hall, then, and decide where to go from there, okay?”

“Sounds good to me,” he says.

She stands there for a moment longer, awkward, like she’s trying to find something else to talk about. Finally, she sighs almost imperceptibly and says, “Well, I’ll just – be going, then.”

“Alright, then, good night,” Nathaniel says, watching her turn and go.

It’s been – strange, to say the least. Strange to serve under the command of his father’s murderer along with an apostate and a dwarf. Stranger still that it’s little Eve Cousland, all grown up with an Archdemon under her belt. And try as he might, Nathaniel can’t push that from his mind. He catches himself forgetting that she press-ganged him into this, that she singlehandedly stripped the Howes of everything they had.

In those moments, he’s _happy_.

And it terrifies him.

The next morning, he’s waiting at the appointed place, trying to ignore Anders’ attempts at flirting (through pretending his cat can _talk, Maker give him patience_) when the Commander shows up, Oghren in tow.

(If Nathaniel squints, he could almost imagine her dragging the dwarf along by his ear, such is her annoyance and Oghren’s look of bewilderment.)

She sighs. “Anders, can you put the cat away if you insist on bringing him? If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather not deal with a feline ghoul running around the Keep, getting into who knows what.”

Anders huffs, but puts the animal away, tucking it safely in his pack. “You’re no fun,” he complains.

“_Someone_ has to look out for Ser Pounce-a-lot, and it’s apparently not going to be you. We’re about to fight darkspawn,” she points out wryly. “All right, come on, let’s go.”

They dutifully follow her down through the first layer of storerooms, these well trafficked and maintained. Oghren attempts to sneak off when they pass the ale cellar, but the Commander stops him with a firm grip on his shoulder and Nathaniel and Anders can’t help but stifle their laughs.

The second floor seems to be where all evidence of the former inhabitants of this keep were hidden. Nathaniel stops counting the number of things he recognises when he sees the _third_ old toy box of Thomas’. Every so often, the Commander stops to rifle through a chest or sack and come up with a dusty bottle of elfroot extract or an ancient, shrivelled deep mushroom. But there’s still no sign of any of the darkspawn activity they were told of.

The moment they descend to the third floor, though, it hits Nathaniel like a face full of smoke. They’re in a large, open room, dead darkspawn lying all around, and his Taint isn’t quite developed to the point where he can figure out where the living ones are, but he _knows they’re here somewhere_. The other three can clearly feel it too, Anders furrowing his brow and Oghren reaching for his axe.

The Commander stops them before they can go any further, though, beelining to a huddled form in one corner. When they get closer, Nathaniel sees that it’s a dog, chest heaving with every breath, left without even the energy to whine. The Commander’s stroking it softly, crooning something wordless to it as it shudders.

He fumbles around in his pack, looking for a potion. “I’ve got something – we could save it–”

But even as he says the words, he knows that it’s useless. The mabari takes one last rattling breath before sighing and slumping, and the Commander stills for a moment before reaching for its collar. “There’s a note here. It – oh, _Maker_, we should have come down here far sooner.”

“What is it?” Nathaniel asks.

“There’s – there’s people trapped down here, down on the lower level. Someone named Adria–”

Heart pounding, Nathaniel leaps up. “We have to find her,” he says. “She could still be alive – there’s a stream down here, and food perhaps, and–”

“You know her, don’t you?” the Commander asks, and her voice is gentle.

“Yes,” he says shortly. There’s no time for elaborating.

She searches his face for a moment before nodding. “Very well, then. We’ll find her.”

To her credit, she picks up the pace after that. As they proceed down a long hall, Nathaniel can feel his hackles rising, the darkspawn getting closer. Eventually, the Commander holds up a hand for them to stop. “Three hurlocks behind that door,” she says, pointing. “I’ll go n ahead – Anders, if you could freeze them as soon as I open the door, Oghren will come with me, and Nathaniel will stay behind for you.”

“Sounds good, Commander, “Anders nods, and she slips into stealth as Nathaniel trains an arrow on the small, unassuming door.

It swings open seemingly of its own accord, and Nathaniel sees the faintest glimpse of a flash of red hair before all hell breaks loose.

He can’t quite get a clear shot at any of the hurlocks without risking hitting the Commander or Oghren. But there’s one menacing her from behind as she darts around, lighting flashing from her enchanted swords, and he lets his arrow loose almost without thinking.

Immediately, he fits another arrow to his bow and shoots that one as well, not realising either of them found targets until the noise stops and all three darkspawn lie dead on the ground, black-fletched arrows standing tall.

Sheathing her weapons, the Commander motions them onwards, flashing a quick smile at Nathaniel. “Thanks,” she says. “Barely saw that one coming.”

“No problem,” he replies offhandedly before stopping in his tracks.

She _trusts_ him. she trusts him to not only make a shot no one else could, but also to train an arrow on her back as she leads the charge and _not_ let go. And this isn’t quite the first time she’s taken him into battle, but it’s the first time she’s given him orders that gave him the perfect chance to kill her and call it a tragic accident.

“Well?” Anders asks from a few steps ahead, a quizzical look on his face. “Are you coming or not?”

Nathaniel shakes himself. “Right, yeah, on my way.”

The Commander is digging through a few sacks when they catch up. There’s a pile of loose items forming next to her, something long and slender at the very bottom. She reaches for it when she notices him. “Here – Nathaniel, this should be yours.”

It’s _the bow_. Of _course_ it’s his grandfather’s bow, stamped with the Howe crest and all, runes still glittering faintly after all these years. “I was – looking for this,” he says as he accepts it, finding with some alarm that it’s a bit difficult to speak. “Th – thank you.”

She smiles, then, and it’s – it’s so _familiar_, somehow, just as sunny as he remembers, and he turns away before he says something he’ll regret, stowing the bow as securely as he can. He’ll not leave this behind for anything, even if it could use a little work.

They fight their way through a few more groups of darkspawn, enough that Nathaniel almost stops sensing them around him. In one dungeon, the Commander sets a few prisoners free after checking that they’re not ghouls, and – if they’re alive, then Adria could be too. She has to be. She sent a note, they found it – it’s _fate_, it is.

Even though her back is turned when they come through the doorway, he recognises her immediately. She looks like home, like love–

But there’s something wrong. He can _tell_ there’s something wrong, and then she turns around, and her face is streaked with something _dark_, and she lunges at them with mouth further open than should be possible, and–

And she falls, red blossoming on her tattered pink dress. Nathaniel rushes to her side, catching her just before she hits the ground. “What did you _do_?” he asks the Commander, voice breaking.

“She was too far gone,” the Commander says softly. “At that point – we couldn’t save her.”

And then Adria moves in Nathaniel’s arms, reaching for him (however weakly.) Her lips move, but he can’t hear her, and she _smiles_ and then falls still.

Nathaniel wants to howl. He wants to sob so that the whole world can hear his grief. But twenty-nine years of habit is hard to shake, so he doesn’t allow himself more than just bowing his head, feeling the tears come.

No one speaks, and he’s unspeakably grateful for this one moment of tact from the apostate and the dwarf. He hears the faint rustling of armour as he weeps, but the Commander doesn’t say anything for a long moment, not even huffing in impatience.

Eventually, the sound of armoured footsteps winds its way into his senses, and he looks up to see a soldier come into the room. The Commander moves quickly to her, conferring with her in a quiet voice. Most of it is too faint for Nathaniel to hear, but at one point the Commander gestures at him and says, “Give her a proper burial, would you? It’s the least we can do.”

When they finally emerge into the warm summer day, Nathaniel doesn’t even bother shucking his darkspawn-innards-stained armour before beelining out of the keep and into the woods. He can’t think of much more than simply that he needs to be alone, needs to take some time to remember her, needs to think about all that she meant to him.

His feet take him back to the waterfall without his even thinking about it. In the eight years he’s been gone, the place hasn’t changed a bit, and he settles down on the springy grass and lets himself grieve, staring into the clear waters as his mind tears itself apart.

He doesn’t know how much time has passed before he’s roused from his reverie by some sound in the forest, but he automatically stands and reaches for a bow when a deer and her fawn bound into the glade. He sighs and sits back down, watching them drink. He’s far too high strung right now.

Then he realises that he hadn’t reached for the short bow he had brought from Ansburg, but instead the longbow the Commander had found for him. _She _gave_ it to you_, his mind supplies as he examines it carefully. _It’s the most well-crafted bow you’ve ever seen, and she could have kept it for herself. But she gave it to you._

He doesn’t know what to make of the gift. Four days ago, she was snarling at him, calling his family – his _father_ – disgraced and tainted, seeing him as nothing more than the son of her family’s murderer. But there she was, thinking of him as soon as she found it and giving him the one thing he had wanted above all else, and–

“Thought I’d find you here.”

He startles. It’s the Commander, because _of course it is_, and she might not be a mage but she’s got _some_ power to figure out when people are thinking about her. “I – I didn’t hear you coming.”

“It’s past lunchtime,” she says by way of explanation, and he finally notices the basket in her hand. “I was out looking for resources and – thought I might bring you something.”

“Oh – thank you,” Nathaniel stammers as he accepts it, peering inside.

“It’s not much,” she says apologetically. “Cook would’ve had my hide for garters had I taken more. Seems she still remembers all those pies I stole off the windowsill.”

He raises an eyebrow at this. “She still sees you as a child, huh? She – does that.”

The Commander laughs. “Everyone else in the keep is terrified to speak to me, and here’s Cook still cracking my knuckles with a ladle. It’s refreshing, to say the least. Reminds me I’m still just a human.” She falls silent then, but Nathaniel wouldn’t know what to say even if he wasn’t busy realising how hungry he actually is and consequently stuffing his face. So they sit side by side in silence amid the trees.

When Nathaniel is finally done eating, she speaks up again. “I remember her. Vaguely, but it’s there. She always got angry when I ran away, but – she was just worried.”

“Not without reason,” Nathaniel points out. “You’d get yourself into all sorts of trouble.”

“Yeah,” she allows, smiling slightly. Then, after a pause, “Who was she? To you?”

He swallows around the lump in his through that he_ knows_ isn’t Cook’s excellent bread or cheese. “She – she was my mother, really,” he starts. “Mother was never all that interested in _raising_ children, for all that she had us, so Adria – she did it instead. When I was young and it was just me, we’d spend all our time together. All of my best memories of my childhood are – because of her.”

“I’m sorry,” the Commander says quietly. “For what it’s worth – if there had been _any_ chance, I would have done anything to save her.”

“Only you didn’t,” he says, and maybe it’s bitterer than he intended.

But she nods, and he sees – for the first time – how all of this weighs on her. “Only I didn’t. And I’m sorry I couldn’t.”

He sighs, turning away. “Well, thanks for the food, Commander. If it’s all the same to you, I think I’d like to stay here a bit longer. You must have things to attend to.”

“Go ahead,” she says, standing up. “And, Nathaniel?”

“Yes?”

“It’s Everess.”

* * *

_(five: found | 9:30 dragon, 4 august)_

Things are – different between them, after that. He’s uncomfortable calling her by her given name, even though she had explicitly asked him to, until one day she hands Anders a lyrium potion and he says, “Thanks, Everess,” and Nathaniel realises that it’s not just for him.

Curiously, that makes him feel much better about it. He didn’t want to be singled out, even if he wouldn’t mind a closer relationship with the Com – with _Everess_. And she definitely isn’t just turning the full force of her charm on him alone – everyone, even the fucking _spirit_, starts amassing trinkets from her questionable habit of scavenging anything that isn’t nailed down.

“I’ll be leaving for Amaranthine as soon as we get back,” she announces one night on the road. “Nathaniel, if you could come with me, I’d like your help.”

“Can I come too?” the perky dwarf they just picked up – Sigrun – asks. “I’ve never seen a real human city before.”

Everess looks thoughtful. “The Joining is a bit rough on some people, so we’ll see how you feel after that. But if you’re up to it, then of course you’re welcome to come.” What the rest of them know – but Sigrun doesn’t – is that there’s a pretty even chance she won’t even survive the damn thing.

But Everess looks her in the eyes when she says it anyways, as if she doesn’t even know – or else has completely accepted – that she might have condemned her. And after all this time – that feels like the one thing about her that still scares Nathaniel. She laughs and offers a listening ear and gives her friends gifts when she finds things that remind her of them, but she’ll also look someone in the eye as she kills them.

Maybe – that was probably the last thing his father ever saw, Everess’ cold green eyes as she twisted a sword into his chest.

For all his opinion of her has changed, all the times they’ve saved each other in the short month that he’s been a Warden, he still can’t help but remember that she murdered his father. And, now that he knows her better, he can say that she at least believed what she was doing was right. But that doesn’t _make it right._

It’s not like he has any idea what he’d do about it, though. There’s no way he could ever bring himself to hurt her, not now, and he’s searched the keep from top to bottom for any kind of clarity. All he’s turned up is two bits of correspondence, that only prove his father’s resolve, not his motivation.

So he doesn’t do anything. _Something will reveal itself, _he reasons. And while he waits, maybe he can do some good. Even if his father was completely justified (and the doubt has certainly been in his heart for some time,) the people don’t see it that way, and it’s good to do something to restore the family name.

That’s why he goes to Amaranthine with Everess, Sigrun and Anders in tow. Everess won’t give him any details of her task or his assignment, so he’s content just to wait and observe a city that hasn’t changed in eight years, Blight damage notwithstanding.

The others peel off into the market with a firm agreement to meet back in their rented rooms before dinner. Everess leads Nathaniel to a narrow yet clean alleyway, knocking sharply on the door. “There’s someone I want you to meet.”

The door opens quickly, as if someone had been waiting by it, and – “Nate! Oh, _Maker_, it is so good to see you!” and he’s engulfed in an embrace that smells vaguely familiar–

“Delilah?” he manages to stammer out through her crushing grip. “But – I thought you had died–”

“I’m just _married_, silly!” she says, laughing, and holds him even closer now that he’s finally reciprocating.

And – _what_. He pulls back from her, and she’s grinning widely and glowing with health and happiness. “To _who_?”

“His name is Albert – he’s a shopkeep – it’s only been a few months, but I’m so _happy_, Nate–” and then he realizes that she’s also glowing because she’s _pregnant._

And she’s definitely _happy_, but – “A shopkeep?” he can’t help but repeat incredulously. “Delilah–”

“Oh, don’t say it like that! With – with Father and all, I would have been lucky to find _anyone_ who would give me a roof over my head, and Albert is so much better than I could possibly have hoped for,” she says brightly, but the smile is falling from her face nonetheless.

“What do you mean?” he asks, confused.

She softens then, taking his hand. “I think we have a lot to talk about.”

Someone coughs quietly, and he realizes with a start that he’s forgotten all about Everess. “I’ll just – uh – be going, then. Good to see you, Delilah.”

“Nonsense!” Delilah exclaims. “There’s tea on – we need to catch up – you _must_ stay!”

But Everess shakes her head. “I do have business to attend to, truly,” she says, apologetic.

“Then I suppose I–” Nathaniel starts.

Everess cuts him off. “I brought you here for this,” she says gently. “You stay with her. I’ll see you at dinner, okay?”

Delilah leads him inside after they see Everess off. Her home is small but cozy and well maintained, and she keeps up a steady stream of chatter as she pours him tea and sets out a few tidbits. However, when she finally stops bustling around and settles down at the small table across from Nathaniel, hands wrapped around her own steaming mug, her expression grows serious. “Why did you come back?” she asks quietly. “Not – not that it isn’t wonderful to see you, know you’re safe, but – maker, there was just a Blight here, and you _love_ Ansburg–”

“I heard someone killed Father and stole our land,” he says. “So I came.”

She sighs. “To do _what?_ Father deserved everything Everess gave him. Maybe a quick death was _merciful_, considering everything he did.”

Nathaniel goggles. “How can you _say_ that? She cut him down!”

“It wasn’t in cold blood, no matter what you heard,” Delilah shoots back. “He was holding Anora mac Tir hostage, and Everess was just trying to rescue her. And anyways, you weren’t _here. _You didn’t have to listen to him plot to kill the Couslands and take Highever, You didn’t stand by and watch him run ragged over Highever and Denerim, doing _whatever _the _hell_ he wanted to _whoever_ the _hell_ he wanted and pulling Loghain’s puppet strings all the while.”

He sits back in shock. Delilah had always been a quiet and polite girl, not much given to cursing or raising her voice, but the frustration on her face right now – it’s not the first time he’s heard those accusations, but it’s the first time he believes them. Because Everess was hurting, she had lost her parents and was only trying to explain it away, blame it all on someone easy, but Delilah? Delilah would never have talked about _anyone_ like that, not – not without reason. And Nathaniel has trusted her all his life. She grew up under the same roof he did, listened to the same old stories about the family legacy, played in the same courtyard under the watchful towers of the Vigil. She – she can’t be lying, and she wouldn’t burst out like that without knowing _exactly_ what she was talking about.

“Andraste’s _knickers_,” he groans, head in his hands. “He – _really_?”

“Really,” she confirms. When he finally looks up, her eyes shine with unshed tears.

“I always carried the family legacy with me,” he says slowly. “Always wanted to be a Howe like all the Howes before us. But I suppose it turns out that the Howes before us weren’t so great, either.” He laughs, and it’s bitter like the taste of his own bile.

His sister reaches for him, hand warm from the mug where it touches his own. “You don’t need them to be great,” she says, gentle. “Make something new. Be who you are without thinking of them. It’s what I’ve done here. You’re a Grey Warden, now. Be a good one.”

“That’s easier said than done,” he grumbles.

She sighs, rising to take their mugs. They don’t speak any more of it.

But it sticks in his mind all through the rest of the day, through his meeting Albert (good enough, he supposes, and he certainly seems kind) and dinner with everyone else (mostly dominated by Sigrun’s wide-eyed recounting of literally _everything_ she had seen that day.) He catches Everess by the arm before she makes to follow the other two and retire to the room she’s sharing with Sigrun tonight. “A word, if you have the time?”

“What is it?” she asks, looking worried and sitting back down.

The common room is relatively quiet for this time of the night, so he feels – not comfortable, exactly, but _enough_ that he starts speaking. “Delilah – spoke to me about our father today,” he begins, fiddling with a loose thread on his sleeve. “I – you were right. My father – he wasn’t much of a good man and – for what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

He hears Everess huff. “I never blamed you,” she says slowly. “Even when you first showed up and spewed all that – that _shit_ about your father having a _reason_ – I never blamed _you_ for any of it. Just him.”

“Then why did you conscript me?” he can’t help but ask. “You didn’t – you didn’t have me executed, okay, but you knew I could have died through the Joining – why did you do it anyways?”

She shrugs. “I – we needed people, and my most promising recruit didn’t survive it, and you did take down three Wardens–” but her voice is suddenly too light, and he knows she’s not telling the whole truth.

But he lets it be for now. He’s said his piece, and she seems to have accepted it, so that’s good enough for them.

Until it isn’t, when they return to the Vigil to rest up before braving the Blackmarsh and Everess disappears for a few hours. Looking even more put-upon than usual, the seneschal asks all of them to look for her, there’s “far too many people all looking for a personal audience with the Hero of Ferelden, and if she doesn’t make an appearance in the next hour or so I’ll have to truss Maverlies up and trot her out here as the Commander so we don’t have a riot on our hands, and we really shouldn’t have that, should we?”

So Nathaniel goes. He has a feeling he knows where she is.

And he’s right – she’s sitting cross-legged by the clear pool, just out of the spray of the waterfall, clad in simple clothes with her armour nowhere to be seen. He’s sure she has at least one weapon on her, but – he’s still worried. What if Darkspawn come – what if someone else decides to take a shot at her – what if–

“I know you’re there,” she calls, and, well, why was he worrying? Everess can more than take care of herself.

“Varel sent me to look for you,” he says by way of explanation as he settles down next o her. “Was threatening to make Maverlies impersonate you.”

She sighs, running a hand through her hair, for once completely unbound. “I just – wanted to not be the Warden-Commander for a moment,” she says slowly. “Maker, I was raised for all this politicking and grandstanding, but – it’s suddenly so much harder now.”

“You’re the Queen, too, remember?” he teases gently, trying to get her out of the mental hole she’s fallen into. “You’re going to have to get used to it, or else some Orlesian lady’ll eat you alive. And I’m certainly not going to stop her.”

Rolling her eyes, she notes wryly, “Knew I could count on you to have my back.”

“Hey, I didn’t rat you out to Varel, he protests. “No one knows we’re here.”

She laughs. “I suppose you’re not _all_ bad, then.” Sobering, she adds, “You know – that’s why I conscripted you. I – I wanted someone I could _trust_ on my crew.”

“Ah, yes, so you picked the man who had literally just confessed to wanting to kill you,” he says, voice flat.

Shaking her head, she smiles anyways. “I mean – well, yes, but I also picked the man who saved my life and gave me my first bow. You’ve always had my back, Nate. Even if you didn’t think you did. You couldn’t bring yourself to even think of killing me, remember?”

And that’s _definitely_ not the same thing, but – oh. She still thinks just as highly of him as she did all those years ago, before his family lost its honor, before she lost her family, before he lost his direction.

But he’s found it now. He belongs at her side, under her command, fighting to reclaim all they had lost.

He grins, then, and the joy hits him suddenly. “Yeah, you’re right, Eve. I’ve always got you.”

* * *

_(plus one: trust | 9:37 dragon, 5 wintermarch)_

He pushes the door of his study open with a long sigh. Just working his way through the Vigil after his return had taken him upwards of an hour, and all he wants to do is crawl into his own bed and sleep for an entire day. But Garevel insisted that he at least get started on all the paperwork that had piled up in his absence, so here he is.

“Would be nice if Eve ever showed up to help,” he grumbles, “but _no_, she has to be _queen_–”

Someone’s sitting at _his_ desk, head bent over _his work_.

He’ll admit it. He yelps.

They raise their head, and – oh, speak of a whole fucking Archdemon, it’s Eve, clad in full armour as he’d wager she hasn’t been in a few years. “You were supposed to be back two weeks ago,” she says, one corner of her mouth lifting. “Do you know how many letters and forms Garevel’s made me go through since I got here? _Two weeks_, Nate.”

“Andraste’s _flaming knickers_, Eve, what are you _doing _here?” he asks, tossing his pack on the floor and sinking on to the windowsill.

“Waiting for you,” she says drily. “Thought I’d be waiting for all of two days at the most. What happened?”

Nate sighs, his formerly dislocated shoulder twinging in memory. “Ambushed. Lost everyone in minutes. I only survived because an ogre triggered a cave-in and cut me off from the rest. Didn’t think I’d make it until the fucking Champion of Kirkwall showed up.”

“Isalin Hawke?” Eve asks, eyebrow raised. “Alistair met her a few months ago. Seemed to like her well enough.”

He shrugs. “She did save my life just because Delilah found her and asked her to, so I guess that’s good enough for me.”

“And did she get involved with your mission?” Eve leans back in _his_ chair, fingers steepled. “Wasn’t the whole point to _not_ get her and her crew involved?”

“Wasn’t much of a mission by the time they found me,” he points out. “Maybe if we could recover the bodies, they’res bound to be notes and maybe some artefacts, but – I wasn’t in charge of any of that, and I was scouting ahead and got separated.”

“We’ll look into that, then. Make sure you include that in your report to the First Warden,” she says. “See if anyone can spare a detour in that area. I’m not sending you back there.”

“Why not?” Nate asks, cursing himself the moment it leaves his mouth. He loves the Marches and all, but he only _just_ got back, and he is _so tired_.

She takes a deep breath and looks him directly in the eye. “I’m leaving,” she says, “and I don’t know when I’ll be back. Until then, I’m making you acting Commander of the Grey.”

“I’m basically acting commander already,” he grumbles reflexively. Then his brain catches up with her words. “Wait, _what_? Where are you going? What’s going on?”

“Ferelden needs an heir to the throne,” she starts, and Nate isn’t quite sure where she’s going with this. “And it’s – extremely difficult for a single Grey Warden to conceive, let alone two. And – we’ve both been tainted for almost a decade, Alistair and I, so we have twenty years left at the most. Which isn’t – it’s not enough time to fix Ferelden, not enough time to establish our legacy and make sure it _stays_.”

“You’re trying to cure the Calling,” Nate guesses.

“I’m looking for a cure to the Taint,” she corrects. “A way to preserve this country and Alistair’s rule. But I’ll take one or the other.”

“Do you have _anything_ to work off of? Anything besides legends and tales? Or are you just running off on a wild goose chase?” Nate protests. “Where are you even _going_?”

“West,” she says. “The Blight has never gone past the Hunterhorns. There must be a reason for that.”

He sighs. “There’s civil war brewing in Orlais, and who-knows-what going on in Kirkwall, and a succession crisis just waiting to happen in Nevarra, not to mention your duties as Warden-Commander–”

She waves a dismissive hand. “Alistair’s more than capable of dealing with all that himself, should the need arise. And you said it yourself – you’re basically acting commander already. I just stopped by to make it official before I leave.”

“You just – you’re not here to pick a team, at least? Are you – you’re not fucking going _alone_?”

“This is getting tiresome,” she says, head in her hands. “Yes, I’m going alone. No, that is not negotiable. Absolutely _not_, you’re not coming with me.”

Nate, who had just been about to offer exactly that, clamps his mouth shut. After a moment of thought, he finally asks, “And what if you don’t return?”

“Then you’ll be the Commander,” she says simply. “And maybe even if I do return. The whole point of this business is to_ retire_, you know.”

He doesn’t like the sound of that. To him, even after all this time, Eve _is_ the Wardens. She’s what they could be at their best, and if she’s leaving – “And there’s nothing I can do to convince you to stay, is there?” The years have nominally mellowed her out somewhat, but at times like this Nate can feel the old stubborness surging to the fore.

She shakes her head. “I wouldn’t leave if you weren’t here,” she says. “There’s no one I’d trust more to take my place, no one more capable than you to preserve the peace and defend our nation.”

He sighs. “That’s all well and good, Eve, but – I’d really rather you stayed.”

“You don’t need me,” Eve says gently. “You don’t need me here, and I need to find a cure. I’ve thought over this for months, now. It’ll be fine.”

Shaking his head, he says, “I still don’t like it,” even as he knows he lost the battle before it even began.

“Your job isn’t to like it,” Eve responds, reaching for a trinket on the desk. “Your job is to take orders. And as your commander, I’m ordering you to step into my office until further notice.” She hands him a small golden object, heavy in his hand.

It’s her seal. Not her royal one, but the solid two-headed griffon emblazoned with an F, for the Warden-Commander of Ferelden. As Warden-Constable, Nate has one similar, but its lack of a second head has caused him not a few headaches with overbearing bureaucrats in the past. He’s still looking at it when she holds something else out to him. “And – this is for you, too.”

This is something he was once intimately familiar with, the silverite links and veridium amulet that had once rested upon his father’s chest at all the important audiences. He stares at it but doesn’t take it. “What?”

“If you’re taking my place, you’re Arl of Amaranthine too,” she says, a bit awkwardly. “I couldn’t exactly turn it over to Alistair, and Fergus has his hands full with the teyrnir. Anyways, Amaranthine is linked to the Wardens now, so – it’s you. You’re the arl. Alistair knows, and I’ve already written to Weisshaupt. It’s official.”

His heart stops. He had given up any thought of ever being the Arl after he became a Warden – even if it was his birthright, it was a path closed to him forever. And now–

“You’ve earned this, Nate,” Eve says. “This has nothing to do with the man your father was, and everything to do with the man you are now. The arling is yours because you _deserve_ it, not because you were born to it.”

Nate can’t help himself. He pulls Eve up into a tight embrace, holding her as tightly as he possibly can through his armour, squeezing his eyes shut in an effort to prevent the tears from falling. “Thank you,” he says softly. “I never–”

She pulls back to look at him, a hand still on his arm. “That’s why it’s yours.”

So she leaves the next day at the break of dawn. Nate and Garevel turn the entire keep out to see her off, but Nate keeps watching from the battlements long after she’s disappeared, the seal just as heavy in his pocket as the chain is around his neck.

Three months later, all hell breaks loose, and she _isn’t here_.

**Author's Note:**

> am i already thinking of a sequel for this? definitely
> 
> anyways find me on [tumblr](http://zaeedmassanis.tumblr.com)


End file.
